


I Lay Down This Armor (For You)

by ParadiseAvenger



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:31:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadiseAvenger/pseuds/ParadiseAvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy laid down his armor, his weapons, his body to protect Octavia. Clarke remained to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Savior, Sacrifice, & Sanctuary

I recently started a Twitter account. I’m still not sure what to do with it, but if anyone wants to check that out: https://twitter.com/ParadiseAvenger

Some inspiration drawn from this beautiful video and song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUlyv6bcnJg

_“I will surrender tonight before we both lose this fight.  
Take my defenses—all my defenses.  
I lay down this armor.  
I lay down this armor for you.”  
—Landon Austin, Armor_

“Don’t worry about it. Trust me,” Bellamy told Clarke. He caught her by the sleeve of her shirt and forced her to turn to face him. “I know Octavia. She just needs a few minutes to cool off. If she doesn’t come back in ten minutes, I’ll go after her.” His cheek was still stinging red from Octavia’s slap.

Clarke resisted the urge to cup his cheek against her palm. “I don’t know, Bellamy,” she said and turned to stare at the closing gates of their camp. “She was pretty upset and I think I agree with her. Lincoln has only helped us. I don’t think we should jump to conclusions about the Grounders. To judge them just because they’re different from us is stupid.”

Bellamy heaved a deep sigh and released Clarke’s sleeve to push his hand through his hair. He fingered his cheek with a wince. “To be completely honest, I’d be just as upset if Octavia was involved with one of our Hundred,” he admitted so quietly that Clarke would have missed it on anyone else. “She’s my baby sister.”

Clarke glanced at him, her blue eyes soft.

“I’ll bring her back,” Bellamy said and patted his waist for his knife and hatchet. He hesitated, toes scuffing through the dirt. “When I get back with her, will you… help us talk about this?”

Clarke nodded. “Definitely,” she assured him.

Bellamy flashed her a winning smile and headed after Octavia. “Don’t slack off while I’m gone,” he warned the guards at the wall. “And don’t do anything stupid.”

Jasper gave him a mock-salute that was probably more like a real salute since this was Bellamy.

Clarke came to help him close the gate behind Bellamy.

“He’ll be fine,” Jasper told Clarke. “They both will.”

“I know,” Clarke said. 

A gust of wind howled through the forest and she picked some leaves out of her hair. They stood together until the silhouette of Bellamy’s form vanished into the thick woods. They heard his voice echo through the open air, bouncing back as he yelled for Octavia. After a few minutes, the sound diminished and silence pressed in around the camp. 

“Octavia!” Bellamy shouted and hastened after the sound of his sister running. He knew her footsteps anywhere, having listened to them for most of his life. In fact, the year he spent without her was the hardest part, beyond even losing his mother and his position. “Octavia! Stop!”

Octavia ignored him, but he was close enough now to see the swish of her hair. 

Bellamy put on another burst of speed and managed to catch up. He grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him, holding her tight like he used to when she was just a frightened little girl.

“Let me go!” Octavia protested and thrashed in his grip. “You don’t get it!”

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy whispered into her hair abruptly. 

She froze as the words sank into her. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’ve been overreacting, but… you have to know how much I love you.”

Octavia pressed her face into his shoulder. Defeated, she let out her breath and embraced him. “I know, big brother,” she murmured. “But I was locked under the floor for so long. I just want to live. Lincoln is—”

Bellamy hushed her, yet unwilling to talk about her new lover. “Will you just come back to camp with me?”

Octavia nodded.

They broke apart and Bellamy took a moment to wipe the lingering tears from her cheeks. She looked so young and small beneath his hands. He smiled at her, remembering all the times he had comforted her in their tiny apartment on the Ark. Octavia’s pinched brows softened and her fingers clenched lightly in his shirt. Then, there was a loud snap. Bellamy let his hands fall, half-expecting Lincoln to have been drawn by all their shouting. Octavia’s eyes darted, clearly thinking the same.

A prickle of awareness slid down Bellamy’s spine. Something was wrong! He grabbed for the hatchet at his belt, whirling to protect Octavia against his back, but he was too slow. The cold kiss of a blade pressed to his throat and rough fingers pried away his weapons. 

“Well now,” came a man’s voice, “isn’t that sweet?” 

His breath was heavily scented with liquor and the blade swayed along Bellamy’s windpipe. He was weighing his chances of escaping the hold before his throat was slit when several more men emerged from the foliage. Bellamy saw Octavia’s face flash with fear and he wondered what she knew as the drunk at his back dragged him a few steps away from her. 

There were three men, each with a leering smile and hard flinty eyes. They looked a lot like the other Grounders, but there was something very different about them. They wore furred pants and heavy armor, carried wicked weapons, and smelled terrible. One wore a helmet with a crown of ram’s horns curling over his head, another carried a wineskin, and the third had his knife pressed to Bellamy’s throat. 

Why hadn’t he grabbed his rifle before leaving camp? Even if he didn’t manage to shoot one of them, he knew the sound of the shot would bring half the camp running. Bellamy’s hands clenched into useless fists, empty.

“What have we here?” asked one of the men. He regarded Octavia like she was a delicious morsel to be devoured messily and viciously. 

Bellamy knew that expression. He had seen it on the face of the man who came to their apartment to tell his mother when each ‘surprise’ inspection would be so they could hide Octavia. Bellamy’s heart jumped into his throat and stayed there, choking him more firmly than any blade jaggedly pressing over his jugular. 

One of the men circled Octavia predatorily, picked a lock of her long loose hair from her shoulder, and twisted it around his finger. Octavia’s eyes darted to Bellamy, to the Grounder’s hand, and back again. She didn’t plead for him to help her, but she didn’t need to. Bellamy’s mind whirred through all possible courses of action, but the blade at his neck lowered his options. 

A half-stifled scream escaped Octavia’s lips as one man grabbed her breast through her shirt and squeezed. She tried to wrest away, lashing out with her legs and fists, but the two men easily overpowered her. They wrestled her to the ground and began tearing at her clothes like salivating beasts. 

Bellamy felt the erection of the third man against his back. 

“Isn’t she pretty?” the third man hissed with stale horrific breath.

Octavia choked back a scream, biting her lip as her shirt was ripped open and they began trying to pull down her pants. She thrashed and struggled. 

“You just watch,” he whispered to Bellamy. 

Bellamy would never watch as his precious sister was raped right in front of him. Panic surged through him, but it faded as he felt the third man began to rock against his back. His erection was as hard as a spear, but Bellamy saw his chance. 

“Stop!” he shouted at them. “Take me instead.”

The knife bit into his throat as he spoke. A drop of blood rolled down his neck, over his collarbone, and soaked into his shirt.

“No, Bel—” Octavia protested.

“Why would we want you?” one of the men demanded. He raked dirty nails against Octavia’s pale flesh. 

Bellamy tried to smile. “Have you ever been with another man?” he asked in a way he hoped was tempting.

The two considered him for a moment, eyes raking over every inch of his body even as they continued holding down Octavia. Her bare breasts heaved as she gasped for breath. The third was still rubbing against his back, giving him hope that this plan might save Octavia even if it doomed him.

“Oh?” the first man asked.

Bellamy wet his lips and tried to force out the words. “Of course,” he said haltingly. “I already know what you like. I can make it better than she ever could.”

Tears slipped down Octavia’s cheeks and she shook her head weakly. Her hair fell in a halo around her head, splayed on the harsh forest floor like a pale doll. Bellamy’s eyes flashed over her, searching for injuries, but they hadn’t done more than tear her clothes. If he could just get her out of here, he didn’t care what happened to him. All that mattered was protecting her.

“But you have to let her go,” he continued before he could lose his nerve. “I can’t… do it with an audience.”

The three Grounders glanced at each other, speaking wordlessly.

“What do you think, Abaddon?” one asked. “You’re right up against him. Does he seem good?”

The knife lowered from his throat slightly. Bellamy momentarily thought about fighting, but if he chose to fight and failed, he knew there was nothing he could do to save Octavia. He barely breathed as Abaddon’s free hand raked over his chest, down his thigh, and finally cupped between his legs. Bellamy fought back the urge to cry out, to squirm away, to resist. He had to want this. 

“Feels good to me,” Abaddon remarked after groping Bellamy’s burning face. “Skin’s soft.”

“Alright,” one Grounder said. “Adam, get her up and out of here.”

Adam jerked Octavia to her feet and she didn’t bother to cover her breasts. She reached desperately for Bellamy, crying his name.

“Go,” Bellamy told her as firmly as he could. His throat was tight, his breath came short, and the edges of his vision blurred with panic. “Go. Now.”

When Adam shoved her away, Octavia stumbled on the uneven ground. She paused for a moment, her eyes falling across Bellamy as though she would never see him again. Then, steel dropped over her expression. He shortly feared she would fight, trying to save him, but Octavia whirled around and sprinted off through the woods. Bellamy tried to calculate how far they were from camp. How long would it take her to run there? To get help and weapons? To come back to him? How long did he have to last?

“Want to go first,” Abaddon slurred against Bellamy’s ear.

Adam shrugged and looked to the third Grounder. “Apollyon?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Apollyon said. “If we wanted a hole to rut into, we would have kept the girl. He’ll give us the pleasure of our lives, like he promised.” His eyes felt like daggers being drawn slowly over Bellamy’s skin, cutting. “Or we’ll make him a woman beneath us.”

Bellamy swallowed thickly.

“Let him go, Abaddon,” Adam muttered and began fumbling at the belt of his trousers. “Certainly the girl is running back for help. We need to be quick.”

“Hear that?” Apollyon asked Bellamy with a crude leer. “So if you waste any time, we’ll just have our fun with whoever comes to help you.”

Bellamy nodded weakly. Then, the knife was gone from his throat. He stumbled away from Abaddon and sucked in a deep tremulous breath. Hot blood continued its path down his neck, searing on his cold skin. 

Apollyon tipped his chin, knotted beard wagging with the motion. “Start with Abaddon,” he ordered. 

Bellamy turned to face the drunkard, heart throbbing against his ribcage. Abaddon dropped his pants to his ankles and the erection Bellamy had felt against his lower back stood proud and thick from a knot of unwashed pubic hair. He almost gagged, but fought it away with the image of Octavia’s face. 

For her, this was all for her. 

For her, he would do anything. 

Bellamy gripped the hard shaft and began to pump. For his hands, the motion was familiar and they fell into an easy rhythm more out of habit. He swallowed nervously, disgusted with the thought of wrapping his lips around the weeping head. He opened his mouth, but hesitated. Abruptly, a hand tangled through his thick curls and jerked his head forward. Abaddon’s erection hit the back of his throat and slid deep, choking him immediately. Bellamy struggled, unable to breathe. Weak sounds of distress vibrated up Abaddon’s shaft. 

The drunk was easy.

Coughing horrifically, Bellamy was finally able to pull away. Thick semen coated his tongue and the back of his throat. It dripped from the corners of his mouth. The taste was so foul, salty and bitter. He was almost ill and fisted his hands in the dense leaf cover. His back heaved as he fought for his breath.

“Now, that is not attractive,” Apollyon remarked. “I’m thinking we can catch the girl if we hurry.”

Bellamy shook his head. On his knees, he turned to face the other two while Abaddon crooned drunkenly at his back. He clasped Adam’s shaft in his hand and lowered his mouth to Apollyon’s. His jaw strained to accommodate the large girth, but he couldn’t fit his mouth around it. Horror welled in his chest with the thought of that being forced on Octavia. A fleeting surge of happiness flickered through him. 

Apollyon’s hand stroked over his hair almost gently, plucking at the tangled curls. Licking as best he could, Bellamy didn’t pay much attention until he felt Apollyon’s hand tighten in his hair. His head was jerked back, angling his throat and neck painfully, so that he was forced to look up into the Grounder’s face. 

“Having a little trouble?” Apollyon asked and there was something mean in his voice.

“No trouble,” Bellamy said softly. He wet his lips as a flutter of apprehension took up root in his chest.

“Here,” Apollyon said and drew his dagger from his belt. “Let me help you.”

Bellamy tried to free his hair from Apollyon’s grip, but his scalp ripped painfully and he was unable to get loose. He tried to ward him off with his hands, but Adam circled behind him and pinned his arms behind his back. Helpless, Bellamy felt the cold bite of the dagger at the corner of his mouth a moment before searing pain followed. He screamed, a howl of agony that tore through the forest. His mouth flooded with blood and metal.

“Should I do the other side or do you think it will fit now?” Apollyon asked with a wicked grin.

Bellamy shook his head desperately. Blood ran hot down the side of his face and neck. 

“Hurry up,” Apollyon warned. 

Bellamy’s hands trembled once Adam released them. He managed to close one hand around Adam’s shaft and Apollyon’s grip on his hair prevented him from hesitating. The broad erection rammed into his mouth, chaffed along the tearing wound, and battered the back of his throat. It was all he could do not to scream. His grip tightened around Adam’s member. 

With a muffled curse, the Grounder pulled away from Bellamy’s hand, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. Apollyon continued to thrust into his mouth, making tears spring to Bellamy’s eyes. Adam fisted his hands in Bellamy’s shirt and ripped it down the back. Bare skin exposed, a jolt of terror ran through Bellamy’s entire body. Was this about to get so much worse?

He clutched at Apollyon’s thighs, gagging as the shaft plowed on carelessly. Apollyon’s head tilted back in pleasure, grunting, as he moved. The wound in Bellamy’s face was a blinding spot of agony through it all, making it hard to concentrate as Adam struggled with his belt and pants. Bellamy’s blood went cold and his heart stopped. 

Then, with a moan, Apollyon’s seed filled his mouth. The taste was nothing compared to the searing burn of salt on his slashed face. Bellamy struggled away, clutching his slashed cheek with both hands. There was no cure for the pain as it seeped from his lips and mixed with his blood. He swallowed, hoping to be rid of the burning. 

Adam was still working at Bellamy’s pants. 

Apollyon chuckled, his eyes like black pits behind his horned crown. 

Then, a bullet ricocheted off the ground near Abaddon’s feet. Though deafeningly loud, it was the greatest thing Bellamy had ever heard.

_“I will always be the one who took your place.  
When the rain falls, I won’t let go.  
I’ll be right here.”  
—Ashes Remain, Right Here_

Octavia had never been athletic. Spending years under the floor in a tiny apartment and then another year locked in a cell for being born would do that to anyone’s body and hers was no exception. Having been on Earth for a while, she enjoyed running through the woods with Lincoln. She soaked up his training and skills like a sponge. Now, she pushed her body to and beyond its limit. She had to run—faster, faster, faster—she had to run to save Bellamy. 

She still couldn’t believe what he had done. Her breath came short as she sprinted. Stinging branches whipped at her face and exposed chest, but she didn’t slow to push anything aside. She barreled head-on through the forest, legs pumping and feet flying. When she tripped and fell, she only scrambled back to her feet and hastened. Her lungs burned, her side cramped, her ankle throbbed from her fall over a root, but none of it mattered.

Faster, faster, faster—she had to run faster. She would have started yelling the instant she could see their camp and the tall spire of the drop ship, but she couldn’t find the breath. Instead, she rushed straight through the gate and knocked Jasper aside in her haste. She bolted to the medical portion of the drop ship, tripped over something she didn’t even see, and grabbed Clarke by her shoulders. She spun the blonde around sharply, panting.

Clarke’s blue eyes took in Octavia and widened. Her hands fluttered like butterflies, uncertain where to touch down on Octavia’s body. “Octavia, what—?”

Octavia didn’t let her get the words out. She managed to get enough air to speak and said only one word, “Bellamy.”

Clarke’s expression hardened. She didn’t waste a moment grabbing her medical bag and gripping Octavia’s wrist. The halves of Octavia’s torn shirt fluttered like wings. Jasper met them at the end of the drop ship’s door. 

“Guys, what’s going on?” he asked.

Without hesitation, Clarke ordered, “Get Monroe and Miller. Now.”

Jasper didn’t protest or ask further questions. He immediately left.

By the time Clarke and Octavia reached the gate, the trio was waiting for them. They didn’t bother to explain or ask questions. They set off running immediately. Octavia had caught enough of her breath to jog, but the closer she drew to where she had left her brother, the more strength she found. She had paused at her tent and remove Lincoln’s sword from its hiding place beneath her makeshift mattress. Its weight was comforting in her hand even as her lungs burned. 

“Octavia,” Clarke said between breaths at they ran. “You have to give us some idea of what we’re up against.”

“Three Grounders,” Octavia cut out, “caught us by surprise. Wanted me. Bellamy stayed instead.”

A horrific scream split the forest and Octavia felt her heart splinter. 

They ran even faster, practically flying over the uneven ground. Finally, the clearing came into view. Jasper put out his hand to slow the group and Octavia crouched beside him, breathing hard from her sprints. She gestured wordlessly to each Grounder and ticked them off her fingers. Bellamy was doubled over on the ground, blood dripping from his mouth, and her blood boiled. How dare they lay a finger on her brother! 

One of the Grounders was trying to pull off Bellamy’s pants. Jasper anchored his rifle against his shoulder and fired a warning shot into the ground, but Octavia couldn’t wait any longer. Yelling a battle cry, Octavia rushed out of the foliage. She gripped Lincoln’s sword tighter, uncaring that her chest was completely exposed. All that mattered was Bellamy. He looked up, one hand folded over his mouth and cheek with blood oozing between his fingers. Palpable relief showed on his face. 

Adam and Apollyon cursed in their native tongue before they took off running. They were surprisingly fast and Octavia was too exhausted to catch them. Abaddon was too drunk and satisfied to escape though. Miller tackled him and Monroe jammed her rifle under his chin. Octavia and Clarke collapsed to their knees on either side of Bellamy. His shirt was ripped down the back, but he looked mostly all right.

“Let me see,” Clarke counseled and tried to ease his hand away from his face.

He shook his head, blood dripping from beneath his palm. Clarke pulled a bandage from her bag and held it out insistently. Bellamy finally took it, eased it over his slashed mouth, and pressed his hand back over it. His shoulders and hands trembled. 

“Let’s get you back to camp,” Clarke said gently. “Octavia, you should cover yourself up now.”

Octavia glanced down at her bare breasts and pulled her torn shirt over them. Jasper offered his jacket and she zipped herself into it. Together, she and Clarke supported Bellamy on either side. He was strong enough to stand, but the way he shook worried Clarke. 

“What about him?” Jasper asked and gestured to the pinned Grounder.

“Bring him,” Octavia snarled.

Clarke nodded in agreement.

Together, they all made their way back to camp. Clarke swatted everyone away at the gates, ignoring their questions and only assuring everyone that Bellamy was okay because they deserved to know that much. Though taller than her, Bellamy hunched down enough to hide his face behind the curtain of her tangled golden hair. 

“Tie the Grounder up as far from the drop ship as possible,” Clarke told Jasper. 

“Make sure he doesn’t get away,” Octavia demanded. 

Together, they led Bellamy to the drop ship with Monroe following behind them to chase away the lingering people worried for Bellamy. Clarke eased Bellamy to sit down in a chair and stepped back slightly. Octavia remained kneeling at his side. Slow tears slipped down her cheeks as she clung to him. Bellamy’s eyes darted from Monroe standing guard at the door to Octavia and then pleadingly to Clarke. Though puzzled, Clarke could read his expression and nodded in understanding.

“Alright,” Clarke said and clapped her hands. “Everyone out.”

“No!” Octavia shouted and clutched Bellamy’s hand. “I’m not leaving him.”

“Octavia, please,” Clarke said. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Tears dripping down her cheeks, Octavia looked to Bellamy for confirmation.

He nodded slowly.

With a stifled sob, she jerked to her feet and stumbled away. 

Monroe caught her with an arm around her shoulders.

“Make sure she drinks some water,” Clarke called after them.

Monroe nodded. 

Then, the thin curtain swung shut and she was alone in the drop ship with Bellamy. She gathered a few supplies aimlessly and then let her breath out slowly to settle her nerves. She turned to face him, looking at the blood-soaked bandage pressed to his mouth and cheek. “I need to see,” she said gently. “I need to treat you.”

Bellamy’s hand trembled as he lowered it. 

Clarke gasped quietly, stricken. A long slice ran from the corner of his mouth to the middle of his cheek. It was clean and no longer bleeding terribly, but Clarke had never seen something so clinically brutal. One of the Grounders had cut Bellamy with wicked intent. She leaned close to examine the wound and Bellamy’s breath puffed on her skin. She didn’t know where to touch or where to begin. “I… I think I might need to call my mother. I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

Bellamy’s eyes were dark as he looked at her. “Just sew it up,” he whispered.

“But,” Clarke protested, “I don’t have anything to numb it and it’s on your face.”

He didn’t say anything to that. 

“Will you tell me what happened?” Clarke asked, even though she half-suspected by the state of Octavia’s shirt. Bellamy’s shirt was ripped as well, exposing his back. The column of his spine looked slender and vulnerable, his ribs curing like spread fingers, and there was a scar on the back of his shoulder. “What did they do to you?”

His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists against the chair and he didn’t answer. A full-body shudder wracked him. 

“Let me call my mom on the Ark, okay? Just hold on,” Clarke whispered. 

Bellamy was sitting close enough to touch when she sat down in front of Raven’s jury-rigged screen, but the narrow camera couldn’t see him. Clarke wasn’t really ready to talk to her mother again, not so soon after everything that had happened, but she would for Bellamy. 

“Abby Griffin?” Clarke called into the microphone. “Abby? Dr. Griffin? Mom?”

Finally, Abby’s face appeared on the monitor. “Clarke, what’s wrong?”

“Bellamy’s hurt,” Clarke said without preamble. “His mouth and face are cut.”

Abby craned her neck, looking beyond Clarke. “Where is he? May I see the wound?”

“He’s here,” Clarke murmured and glanced at him. “Bellamy, will you come here?”

Bellamy shifted into view of the camera, his eyes downcast.

Abby gasped. “God, what happened?”

Clarke swallowed thickly and glanced at Bellamy. He didn’t look up. “Later,” she told her mother. “What can I do?”

Abby pressed her lips into a thin line. “You’ll have to sew it up using small stitches. Be very careful not to prick his gums.”

“I don’t have anything to numb it,” Clarke said.

“I’m sorry,” Abby told her. “If you don’t sew it up, it won’t heal correctly and it can’t wait until the Ark joins you on the ground.”

Clarke took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said softly. “Thanks.”

“Clarke,” Abby began, but Clarke shut down the monitor.

“Bellamy,” she whispered. “Are you okay? Can I stitch you up?”

He nodded slightly.

“I can get you some moonshine to take the edge off,” she offered.

He moved to wet his lips and winced. Then, he shook his head.

Clarke couldn’t imagine how much a wound like that hurt. She got out some thin surgical thread, sterilized her hands with moonshine, and came to sit in front of Bellamy. She needed both her hands to work, but she clasped his hand comfortingly in her own and guided his hand to rest on her knee. 

“You just squeeze when it hurts, Bellamy,” she said kindly. 

As she began to sew, being mindful of his gums, his fingers hardly moved save the occasional tremble, but the longer she worked on him, the tighter his grip became. Soon, his fingers were cutting into her through her jeans. Tiny whimpers escaped his throat and a few tears slipped down his face. Finally, Clarke finished and very gently patted the wound with moonshine. Bellamy winced, shying from her touch. Clarke whispered soothingly to him as she secured a small pad of gauze over his cheek. When he licked his lips, a smear of blood followed in its wake.

“Are you alright?” she asked and reached to wipe the blood from his mouth.

He flinched away for her and a strangled sound escaped his lips.

Clarke paused, studying him. “Bellamy?”

He wiped his red-rimmed eyes and then his blood-smeared mouth. 

“Should I get Octavia?” Clarke asked.

Bellamy’s dark eyes widened with something akin to fear. He caught her hand in his and the tips of his fingers were like little points of ice on her skin. He shook his head quickly, wincing as the motion pulled his slashed face. “Don’t let her see me like this,” he croaked in a voice that broke and chipped at Clarke’s soul, “please.” 

She nodded in understanding. “Should I go?” she asked him.

He shook his head again and tightened his grip on her hand.

Clarke remained seated beside him. She soothingly ran her thumb over his knuckles, feeling the bumps of his bones and the roughness of his hard-working skin. “You must be tired,” she murmured. “Do you want to lie down in your tent?”

He shook his head.

There was a metallic rapping on the threshold of the drop ship and Jasper called, “Clarke? Sterling just split open his elbow. Can I bring him in?”

Clarke glanced at Bellamy, more to gauge his reaction than seeking his approval. Bellamy’s eyes were lowered, his hand clenched around hers, but he didn’t tremble. Clarke gently unpeeled his fingers from hers, picked up a thick orange blanket, and tucked it around him. His fingers knotted in it, pulling it closer.

“Sure,” Clarke called to Jasper.

Jasper swept the fabric doorway aside and ushered Sterling in. He had been smart enough to put a bit of cloth over the wound and keep pressure on it. Sterling’s face was pale and green around the edges. The boy had never gotten used to the sight of blood, but he was brave. 

Clarke smiled at him and said approvingly, “Good work, Jasper.”

Jasper nodded without looking at her. His eyes slid across the drop ship to Bellamy, taking in his curled posture and the covered wound on his face. To his credit, Jasper didn’t approach Bellamy and tucked himself out of Clarke’s way as she stitched up Sterling’s elbow. When she finished, she gave him a drink of moonshine and made him promise to be more careful. Jasper took him by his good elbow and led him out of the drop ship. 

“Clarke?” Jasper asked.

Sensing something in his voice, Clarke glanced at Bellamy and then slipped past the cloth curtain. “Yeah?”

Jasper pressed his lips together before finally speaking. “I was talking to Octavia. She’s really upset and her shirt was…” His eyes darted across the camp, over the leaves at their feet, and back to Clarke’s face. “Was Bellamy…?” Jasper cut away the question, shaking himself. “Is he okay?”

“He will be,” Clarke assured him.

Jasper let his breath out slowly. 

“Where’s Octavia?” Clarke asked.

“With Monty and Raven,” Jasper told her.

“Is she alright? I never got a chance to see if she was injured.”

“She’s okay,” Jasper said. “Monty’s making her drink some tea.”

“And the Grounder?”

“I tied him to a post at the edge of camp. Miller is watching him.” Jasper paused pensively. “Should we do anything with him? Interrogate him?”

Clarke shook her head. “Tomorrow,” she told him.

Jasper licked his lips. “Octavia wants to see him,” he said softly.

Clarke inhaled and let her breath out slowly. “I can talk to her if you need me too.”

Jasper shook his head. “I think I’ve got it under control for now.

She reached out and gave Jasper’s thin shoulder a firm squeeze. “You’re doing a good job, Jasper.”

“Thanks,” he whispered. “Let me know if you need anything, Clarke.”

She nodded in understanding. 

Clarke watched him walk away. The weight of his rifle hung heavy on his shoulders, but Jasper was strong enough to carry it. Content with the knowledge that Jasper would come to her if he needed something, Clarke ducked back into the drop ship. Bellamy remained where she had left him. He looked drawn and pale, fingers lingering at the edge of his mouth. Clarke sat down across from him and began sorting through her scant supplies to busy her hands.

_“And I'll be your hope when you feel like it's over.  
And I will pick you up when your whole world shatters.  
And when you're finally in my arms,  
Look up and see love has a face.”  
—Red, Not Alone_

Night had fallen and Jasper built up a roaring fire in the middle of camp as though it would keep the demons away. Clarke could see the firelight flickering against the drop ship’s curtains, smell cooking meat and wood smoke, and hear the chatter of her people. She didn’t move from Bellamy’s side unless she had to. It was enough for her to sit beside him, occasionally taking his hand. 

Wordlessly, Bellamy got to his feet. Clarke stood with him, her hands moving to pull the blanket against him, but he shucked it and began folding it up. His tattered shirt hung open down his back and Clarke followed the curve of his ribs with her eyes. He set aside the blanket and stepped towards the doorway. Clarke followed a few steps behind and they slipped out together. 

Everyone was busy with dinner and the fire so no one paid attention as they made their way to Bellamy’s tent. 

Clarke lingered at the threshold and tucked some hair behind her ear in a nervous habitual movement. “Do you want me to come inside with you?”

Bellamy licked his lips, winced, and reached to touch his face before lowering his hand. Clarke saw the war within his eyes and the set of his mouth. Bellamy, the Rebel King who needed no one and had always stood on his own, struggled against the little boy who loved his sister, who lost his mother, who had no one. Clarke made the decision for him by sweeping aside the flap of his tent and stepping inside. Bellamy followed her, pulled off his ruined shirt, picked up a clean one from the end of his makeshift bed, and pulled it on. He looked better now that he was dressed.

“I can mend that,” Clarke offered.

He handed her the shirt wordlessly. 

Clarke folded it as best she could and draped it over her arm. 

Bellamy sat down on the edge of his bed, unlaced his boots, and tugged them off with a mild grimace. Somehow, seeing him barefoot felt more intimate and close than all the times she had treated wounds on his back and shoulders or even the time she had forced him to remove his pants so she could get to an injury on his thigh. Clarke’s eyes immediately lit on the blisters all over his feet and she registered what she was seeing. 

“Where are your socks?” she asked a little more sharply than she had intended. 

Bellamy shifted his shoulders in a reticent shrug. “I gave them to Octavia,” he murmured.

Clarke made a noise in her throat. “I have a new plan for this shirt,” she told him sternly. “I’m making you some socks and I won’t take no for an answer.”

Bellamy’s lips quirked into half a smile. “The Princess,” he said lightly, “making socks for little old me?”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “Don’t get used to it, but that,” she told him and pointed to his battered feet, “is completely unacceptable. Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugged again.

Clarke heaved a sigh.

“Bellamy?” Octavia called from outside the tent. 

“Octavia, wait,” came Jasper’s protest.

“Bellamy? Clarke? Are you in there?” Octavia insisted.

A look of wild panic fell across Bellamy’s face. He reached for his boots, intending to hastily put them back on to hide his blisters from Octavia. Clarke kicked them away and gestured for him to stay put on the bed. She put aside his torn shirt, swept out of the tent, and intercepted Octavia.

“Clarke,” Octavia said with a hint of accusation behind the pain in her voice. “Where is he?”

Clarke glanced at Jasper, indicating she had this, and he backed away gratefully. Honestly, she was surprised he had managed to keep Octavia away for as long as he had. If there was one indisputable fact, it was that the Blake siblings loved each other deeply even when they wouldn’t admit it. Bellamy’s actions today had only cemented that.

Clarke took Octavia’s hands and stopped her gently. She chose her words carefully, treading on the thin and slippery ice. “He doesn’t want you to see him, Octavia.” 

Octavia’s eyes widened and she fought against Clarke’s hands like a cornered animal. “What?”

“Please, Octavia,” Clarke said gently. “Can you please respect his wishes?” 

Octavia thrashed as though the words hurt her and they probably did. “Why doesn’t he want to see me?” 

Clarke moistened her lips, searching for the words that wouldn’t make this harder than it already was. “He’s hurt, Octavia,” Clarke admitted gingerly. “He doesn’t want you to see him like this.”

Tears slipped down Octavia’s cheeks. “This is all my fault,” she sobbed.

Clarke shook her firmly but gently. “No,” she said. “It’s no one’s fault but the men who tried to hurt you.”

Octavia cried, pressing her hand over her mouth. “Oh god, Bellamy… Clarke, did they—?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t told me,” she said. “Tomorrow, we’ll all talk about this and decide what to do, alright?”

Octavia nodded shakily. 

The two girls stood together in the moonlight for a moment. Octavia trembled like a bird beneath Clarke’s hands and she could feel the cold of Clarke’s hands through her shirt. As Octavia’s sobs slowly quieted, she dried her face on her sleeve. Sniffling, she looked at Clarke with something new in her expression.

“Clarke?” Octavia whispered. 

“Yeah?”

“You’ll take care of him, right?”

Clarke nodded. “Of course.”

“Because… you’re the only one he’s let see him like this,” Octavia whispered. “That means something.”

Clarke’s lungs tightened. She had never thought about that. Being there for Bellamy when he was hurt felt natural. They had shared so many weak moments together. Bellamy had seen her cry, Clarke had heard him confess his weaknesses, he had screamed Charlotte’s name right alongside her. 

“I’ll take care of him, Octavia,” Clarke assured the younger girl. “I promise.” 

Octavia nodded slowly, her eyes like sharp points on Clarke’s soul. 

Jasper approached again, took Octavia by the hand, and led her back to the flickering firelight. Clarke watched them until they blended back into the mix, breathing in the cool night air to collect herself. Then, she turned back to Bellamy’s tent and entered.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“You’re welcome,” Clarke said. She twisted some hair around her finger and tucked it behind her ear. “You should get some sleep.”

Bellamy’s eyes glowed when he looked at her, pleading without speaking.

“There’s no chair or anything,” Clarke protested weakly. “I don’t really want to sleep on the ground.”

Barefoot, Bellamy stood carefully and peeled back the blankets to his makeshift bed. 

“You can’t sleep on the floor,” she told him. “You need to rest.”

Bellamy regarded her, his eyes deep and soulful. He wet his lips and then whispered, “I promise… I won’t touch you or anything. I just… I promise, I promise.”

Clarke let out her breath. “Alright,” she relented.

Bellamy crawled into bed still wearing his pants and shirt. Clarke removed her jacket and boots before sliding in beside him. His bed was softer than hers and she sighed in bliss as the soft furs enveloped her. The sheets smelled of Bellamy and his body was a veritable furnace against her back. Bellamy shifted and she felt his fingers flit over her back. She shifted back into him, giving him wordless permission for whatever it was he was asking. 

With a soft breath, Bellamy embraced her. Though he was tall and strong, he felt small as he nestled against Clarke’s back. His fingers were thin, his hips were bony, and his breath rattled in his chest. Clarke stroked her fingers along his forearm. His knees were tucked behind hers, molded to her body sweetly, and his hands didn’t stray from her waist. Clarke relaxed against him, soaking up his warmth, even as she felt him drawing comfort from her closeness.

She didn’t know if it was the darkness or the stress of the day finally catching up with him, but she felt wetness on the back of her neck where his face was pressed to her skin. She shifted her position to face him. He started to flinch away, but she cradled his head against her breasts and throat. His breath fluttered against her collarbones. Gently, she smoothed her fingers through his tangled curls. She just held him, soothing him gently into the night.

_“If you ever fall down straight to the bottom  
And you can't get back where you started.  
With no strength to stand,  
I'm gonna reach for your hand.  
When the going gets rough, right when it's hurting,  
I will be there to help bear the burden.”  
—Daughtry, I’ll Fight_

Though Octavia had seen the white lilies Lincoln left her, she couldn’t bring herself to go to him when her brother was suffering. Now that Clarke had assured her she would take care of Bellamy and she knew he was protected, she felt hollowed out. Her emotions were drained, leaving her empty and exhausted. It was only then that she told Jasper where she was going so he wouldn’t worry and slipped out of the camp. She followed the trail of lilies, but didn’t pick any up. The white petals were limp. Lincoln must have left them long ago and she almost feared he had already left the little cave where they met if not for the dim firelight filtering from inside.

“Lincoln,” she called and swept aside the thick curtain of vines so she could enter.

He stood from the fire when he heard her voice, smiling already, but his expression fell when he saw her face. “What is wrong?”

Octavia leaned into his chest, wrapped her arms around him, and just hugged him. Lincoln returned the embrace swiftly and she felt dwarfed in his big arms. She hadn’t felt so small and safe since she was young and still hidden and curled against Bellamy while he read to her in a hushed voice. The tears came quickly even though she thought she had shed them all with Clarke earlier. She sobbed into Lincoln’s shirt and he rubbed her back soothingly. 

“What happened?” Lincoln asked as her crying quieted. 

Octavia pushed back her stringy hair and dried her face on the cloth Lincoln offered. She pulled him to sit in front of the fire and leaned into his side while she found her voice. It took longer than she had expected to put words to what had happened today. She could still feel their hands pawing roughly over her bared breasts, jerking at her pants, trying to get inside her like monsters. She could still hear Bellamy trading himself for her, his body in exchange for hers, as his voice broke.

“Octavia?” Lincoln asked. His voice drew her from the dark swirl of memories.

She wet her lips and confessed, “I was almost raped today.”

Lincoln’s arm tightened around her, pulling her closer to his side involuntarily. “What?”

Octavia shook her head. “Almost,” she assured him. “Bellamy, he… he took my place.”

Lincoln flexed his hand on her arm, fingers curling as though to grip a sword. “Is he alright?”

“I think so,” Octavia whispered. “He’s with Clarke now.”

Lincoln nodded, a slow understanding that Clarke took care of everyone.

Comforted by his quiet strength, the words tripped out of Octavia’s mouth. “God, Bellamy… I ran as fast as I could back to camp and got the others. I’m pretty sure we rescued him in time. He still had his pants on when we arrived, but his shirt was ripped and his mouth was…” She gestured helplessly, trying to encompass the hideous wound carved into her brother’s handsome face.

Lincoln rubbed her arm, her back, her shoulder until the chill was chased from her skin.

Octavia leaned deeper into his embrace, breathing in the earthen scent of his skin and clothes. “He didn’t want to see me,” she whispered, “because he’s hurt. He doesn’t want me to see him hurt.” A little sob escaped her mouth and she muffled it with a hand, drawing a deep breath for strength. “I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know if I can help him.”

“When he is ready,” Lincoln assured her, “you will be able to help him.”

She sniffled and burrowed against his side. They sat in silence for a while, listening to the soft pop and crackle of the fire. Octavia stretched her feet towards the flames and felt the heat through the soles of her boots. She was almost dozing when Lincoln ventured, “These men who attacked you… were they Sky People?”

Octavia shook her head. “No, they were Grounders.”

Lincoln tensed.

Octavia sat up to look into his face. “What is it?”

“Describe these men to me,” he told her.

Pushing a hand through her hair, Octavia let out a hard breath. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I didn’t exactly have time to…”

Lincoln’s eyes were hard and concerned on her.

Octavia wracked her memory, searching for something that stood out. “They were really scruffy and dirty, like they lived in the woods, and they had a lot of armor,” she explained and looked at a distant point on the cavern wall as she thought. “They smelled bad and, ugh, their hands were really rough. The one had rotten teeth. Oh, one had a helmet with horns on it and they were wearing fur pants.”

Beside her, Lincoln jolted. With an abruptness that pushed the air from her lungs, he wrapped his arms around her and crushed her into a hug. “The Satyr Tribe,” he breathed against her hair.

Octavia pushed against his chest so she could look at his face. “What? You know them?”

Lincoln shook his head quickly. “The Satyr Tribe is a group of outcasts. They are foul men, branded and exiled because of their depravity,” he explained. At Octavia’s curious eyes, he continued, “Rapists, molesters, abusers. They are scum and bottom feeders.” He tucked some hair behind her ear and his fingers lingered on her cheek. “Thank goodness you are alright.”

Octavia clasped his hand and squeezed it with trembling fingers. “What usually happens to the people they catch?”

Lincoln glanced away and then back to her face. “They are raped to death, used by the entire wandering tribe until there is nothing left.”

Octavia grit her teeth. Her hearth thumped raggedly against her ribcage as she thought of something like that happening to her or Bellamy. 

Lincoln murmured, “You are lucky—”

“Well, they won’t be so lucky anymore,” Octavia said through gritted teeth. 

Lincoln looked at her curiously. 

Her teeth gleamed, though she didn’t exactly smile. “We caught one of them. He was too drunk to escape with the other two,” she said. “Tomorrow, we’re going to interrogate him. I’m going to find out where their little tribe is and kill every last one of them.”

Lincoln caught her shoulders and she thought for a moment that he would try to talk her out of it, but his eyes were sharp. “You have one of the Satyr Tribe, truly?”

Octavia nodded.

“We have been trying to eradicate them for years,” he told her. “Let me get my leader. We could find peace over this.”

Octavia wet her lips, thinking of Bellamy and the repulsive feelings of their hands crawling over her skin. “Alright,” she relented. “Tomorrow. I’ll tell Clarke you’re coming. I don’t want anyone to be surprised and have an accident.”

Lincoln nodded his agreement, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and helped her to her feet. He walked her back to her camp as close as he dared before promising to see her tomorrow and slipping into the shadows of the bioluminescent forest. She entered camp, found Jasper to tell him she was back safely, and collapsed into her bed. In the darkness, her skin began to crawl with the memories of their rough foul hands. Octavia got back out of bed and went to join Jasper on his watch. He glanced at her as she sat down beside him, but didn’t ask questions.

_“When I'm lost and broken,  
Take me as I am,  
Right here where I stand.  
Open up your arms and let me in.”  
—David Cook, Take Me As I Am_

When Clarke woke the next morning, Bellamy looked a little better. Though he lay awake against her, his dark eyes open and fixed on some invisible point on her collarbone, he smiled thinly as she smoothed the hair out of his eyes. She peeled away the gauze to examine the cut on his mouth and saw that the swelling had diminished. 

“You’ll probably have your good looks back in no time,” Clarke reassured him, “So long as you actually cut your food rather than just eating like a caveman.”

Bellamy half-smiled at her.

“Clarke? Bellamy?” came Octavia’s voice. “I need to talk to you, both of you. Are you awake?”

“Yeah, just a second,” she called to Octavia.

Clarke pushed back the blankets and shivered in the crisp air. She pulled on her boots and shrugged into her jacket, watching as Bellamy did the same. She regretted seeing him pull his boots on over his bare blistered feet, but she hadn’t been able to make socks in her sleep. She vowed to make them later in the day, even if she had to ask Harper for help. Bellamy straightened beside her, took a deep breath, and nodded. Clarke swept open the tent flap. 

Octavia looked much like she had yesterday, but there was a dark strength in her eyes. She carried Lincoln’s sword and still wore Jasper’s jacket, but her jaw was clenched hard. When her eyes fell on Bellamy, her entire form softened. She suddenly looked about to crumble. “Bellamy,” she whispered. 

“Hey, O,” he said softly. Then, he opened his arms like wings taking flight.

Octavia collapsed into him, dropping her sword with a clatter. She wrapped her arms around him tightly and buried her face against his chest. Bellamy bowed his face into her hair, closing his eyes and being mindful of his cheek. For the longest time, they just held each other. Clarke felt like she was intruding and was just about to quietly disappear when Octavia pulled away. She wiped her face and sniffled before smiling at Bellamy gingerly.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she whispered. 

Bellamy tucked some of her hair behind her ear, but most of it had been braided back from her face. 

They gazed at each other, speaking things that Clarke couldn’t hear or understand.

Then, Bellamy finally asked, “What do you need to tell us?”

Octavia licked her lips, picked up her sword, and her knuckles whitened around the hilt. “I went to see Lincoln last night,” she said quickly. “I told him about what happened and he knows those men. They’re a tribe of exiles and perverts that the Grounders have been trying to take down for years—the Satyr Tribe. They’ve never been able to though because they’re wanderers and they’ve never known where to look, but now…”

Clarke’s eyes lit up. “We have one of them.” 

Bellamy shifted slightly. 

“Lincoln is bringing his leader here today,” Octavia continued. “He thinks we can form a peace treaty based on this.”

Clarke nodded.

“How dangerous are they?” Bellamy asked lowly.

Octavia didn’t mention how much danger they had really been in yesterday. “They’re just perverts,” she told her brother. “Lincoln’s tribe is strong and so are we.”

Bellamy nodded, but his eyes darted apprehensively. 

Clarke didn’t reach to touch him and neither did Octavia. They gave him this moment, watching as he collected himself with his hands curling into fists. From beyond the gates, they heard the long wail of a Grounder’s horn. Jasper shouted their names.

“Let’s go,” Octavia said. “I told the rest of the camp, but we should get there before something foolish happens.”

Clarke looked about to scold Octavia for telling her and Bellamy last since they were the closest the tiny camp had to leaders, but she let it go. Together, the trio walked towards the gate. They passed the captured Grounder still bound to the post. He was passed out, unconcerned and snoring loudly. Bellamy shied from him, moving to walk on Clarke’s other side. She didn’t say anything.

“Open the gate,” Octavia told Jasper. 

He and Sterling did so.

On the other side of the gate, standing a ways from the small platoon of soldiers, were Lincoln and the most exotic-looking woman Clarke had ever seen. She had a long narrow face and high cheekbones. Her black-fringed eyes were hard but glitteringly intelligent. Clarke momentarily wondered what she, Octavia, and Bellamy looked like in this woman’s eyes. Lincoln stepped forward, greeting Octavia with little more than his eyes. Clarke realized that a young girl, maybe twelve, stood at Anya’s elbow.

“I’m Clarke,” she began. “This is Octavia and Bellamy.”

“Anya,” the woman said. “My Second, Tris, and Lincoln.”

Silence stretched uncomfortably between them, but it didn’t feel dangerous. 

“I hear you have a Satyr in chains,” Anya said finally.

“Yes,” Clarke agreed. “Would you… like to see him?”

Anya nodded curtly. Then, with a sharp sound, she drew the sword at her waist and held it out to Clarke. 

“Gesture of good faith,” Lincoln whispered. “Take it.”

Clarke accepted the weapon and held it awkwardly at her side. “Um, this way,” she said. “Jasper, Sterling, you can put those away.”

Jasper shouldered his rifle. 

Clarke led Anya, Lincoln, and Tris to where Abaddon was bound to the post. Anya stared down at him for a moment. Her eyes were so sharp that Clarke was certain they were cutting this man to the bone, but he never stirred. Abruptly, Anya kicked him and he moaned into wakefulness. Anya crouched before him, tilting her head like a predator that had found its prey.

Lincoln’s body was warm against Clarke’s side, radiating heat where he stood between her and Octavia. “History,” he whispered.

Clarke didn’t need him to say that. She could have seen the rage in Anya’s eyes, the sorrow in her mouth, the vengeance in her shoulders, without even looking. She didn’t ask who Anya had lost or how it had happened. When Bellamy’s hand fumbled against hers, she squeezed it.

_“And everything's gone, but the pain carries on.  
Lost in the rain again…  
When will it ever end?  
The arms of relief seem so out of reach,  
But I, I am here.”  
—Red, Not Alone_

I think it’s important to talk about rape, but it recently was brought to my attention that plenty of people don’t believe men can be raped. The law is mainly geared to protect women, not men, and society itself thinks male rape is a joke. If you have time, please read the articles I’ve linked to below. 

Here’s an article about one man’s experience in being a man raped by a woman. It’s hard to believe his friends would treat him this way simply because he’s a man: http://www.cracked.com/personal-experiences-1666-5-awful-realities-being-man-who-was-raped-by-woman.html

Resource about Male Sexual Assault: http://www.bandbacktogether.com/male-sexual-assault-resources/

Hidden Meanings: Abaddon—Destruction, Apollyon—Destroyer, Adam—To Be Red

Questions, comments, concerns?

Review!


	2. Survivor, Not Victim

Here are those two articles again. Please read them!

The Realities of Being a Man Raped by a Woman: http://www.cracked.com/personal-experiences-1666-5-awful-realities-being-man-who-was-raped-by-woman.html

Resource about Male Sexual Assault: http://www.bandbacktogether.com/male-sexual-assault-resources/

_“I will surrender tonight before we both lose this fight.  
Take my defenses—all my defenses.  
I lay down this armor.  
I lay down this armor for you.”  
—Landon Austin, Armor_

Anya was a woman of action, a whirlwind storm, an arrow loosed from a bow. Nothing stood in her way and anything that tried was dealt with swiftly. It took her just under an hour to pry the location of the Satyr Tribe from Abaddon and she barely had to flash the naked steel of her dagger. As soon as she knew where they were, she was ready to move and Clarke felt that asking for more time would be pushing it. They needed to make peace with the Grounders and this was as good an opportunity as any. Besides, the desire to avenge whatever had happened to Bellamy burned fiery in her breast.

Clarke checked her rifle, slinging it over her shoulder with a measly five bullets in the clip, while Octavia tested Lincoln’s blade against her thumb. She swiped it a few times against the whetstone with powerful habit. She had smeared a little soot around her eyes and she looked like Anya, like a Grounder, like someone who should never be touched. Bellamy stood between them with his rifle balanced in his hands. The pad of gauze on his cheek stood out starkly against his olive skin, spotted faintly with blood.

Lincoln approached them. “Anya is ready to depart. Are you?”

Octavia nodded and slammed his sword into the belt at her waist. 

“Yes,” Clarke said when Bellamy didn’t.

Lincoln nodded in understanding and beckoned them to follow.

As they fell into step behind Anya and her warriors, more joined them. Jasper and Sterling, Monroe and Miller, even Monty and Harper, followed. Soon half the camp was part of Clarke’s little procession. She caught Anya’s gaze and saw the proud woman smile faintly. She said something in her native tongue that carried the same weight as ‘Brave.’ 

Abruptly, Finn’s hand closed over Clarke’s elbow. “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” he said sharply but low enough for no one but her to hear. “You’re marching to war with the people who tried to kill us to remove some threat to them. We should be making allies with this other tribe. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, you know.”

Raven pushed between them before Clarke could reply. “You’re the stupid one, Finn,” she said coldly. She carried an ornate staff that she had managed to electrify with spare parts. “Didn’t you hear what the Satyr Tribe does to people?”

“Only on the word of someone who wants us all dead,” Finn snapped and cut his eyes at Lincoln’s back. “How can we trust him?”

Octavia snarled. “You don’t have to trust Lincoln,” she said. “You just have to trust me and Bellamy. We were the ones who ran into the Satyr Tribe.”

Finn glared at Bellamy, walking silently between them, and then back to Octavia. “Maybe you wanted it—”

Bellamy moved so quickly that Clarke didn’t even have time to reprimand Finn. He smashed the butt of his rifle into Finn’s chin. His teeth snapped down on his lower lip, drawing blood, and Finn cried out. He reeled away, cradling his jaw. Clarke didn’t ask him if he was alright. He should have known better than to say anything bad about Octavia, especially in front of Bellamy, especially considering what had just happened. He deserved the split lip and the blood dripping from his mouth. 

Clarke turned to Bellamy and asked gently, “Are you okay?” because his knuckles were white around his rifle.

“Fine,” Bellamy murmured, but there was something in his voice.

“Moron,” Raven bit out, but she betrayed herself by turning to look at Finn as they left.

Lincoln dropped back to them. “Everything alright here?”

“Fine,” Clarke assured him. 

Lincoln looked over her shoulders at the veritable army following from camp. “Your people love you,” he said softly.

Clarke followed his eyes and smiled. 

“If we knew nothing else about you, that would be enough,” Lincoln said and tipped his head towards Anya. “We love her as well.”

Clarke watched as Anya opened her canteen, but handed it to Tris before taking a drink for herself. “We’ve had a rocky start,” Clarke murmured. “I hope we can be friends after this.”

Lincoln nodded. He paused as he walked to pluck a stunning pink flower from a tall tree branch and handed it to Octavia. She blushed faintly, smiling, as she tucked it into her hair. Bellamy’s eyes tracked the motion and Clarke saw him smile lightly. She fell into step beside him, their elbows brushing as they walked. She could feel Bellamy trembling when they touched, but she never said anything.

It took the better part of the day to walk to where Abaddon said the Satyr Tribe was camped for the next few days. There was a chance that they had moved already, of course, as wandering criminals were apt to do, but something told Clarke they would still be there. She wasn’t wrong as Anya beckoned her, Lincoln, Bellamy, Tris, and Octavia to climb through the thick foliage with her to peer down at their camp. It was a ramshackle sort of mess. A few bare-chested men milled between the trees, spitting and cursing foully. Somewhere, a woman screamed and it set Bellamy’s teeth on edge. 

“I count twenty-two,” Lincoln said.

Anya nodded and then turned to Tris. “And you?”

Tris looked surprised, but nodded in agreement. “Twenty-two,” she said. “The scream of that woman makes me think they have captives somewhere.”

Anya looked pleased with her young Second. “Clarke, Bellamy, Octavia?”

Clarke wet her lips. She could feel Bellamy’s breath on her shoulder and he shifted his rifle to look through the scope at the village below. “We can leave some of our people on this ridge to provide cover,” she said to Anya. “We don’t have much experience in hand-to-hand combat.”

Anya said, “We will teach you.”

A little spot of warmth took up root in Clarke’s chest. Anya had already practically agreed to a treaty after this, but at least she was already thinking about it. “We can teach you how to use guns,” Clarke offered.

Anya nodded pensively, eying the bit of metal that could kill from a distance greater than any arrow. “In one hour’s time, we will attack. You have until then to organize your people and ready yourselves,” she said. Though her eyes shifted to Bellamy, her expression was unreadable. She beckoned Tris and the two of them walked away.

_“Every girl is capable of murder, if you hurt her.  
Watch out you don't push me any further. Any further!  
You're not the only one walkin' 'round with a loaded gun.  
This little girl is capable of murder 'cause you hurt her.”  
—Cady Groves, This Little Girl_

Octavia’s skin vibrated. She could feel the heat and strength rolling off of Lincoln in waves to her left, the calm coolness of Clarke to her right, and Bellamy at her back. She clenched her fingers tighter around Lincoln’s sword at her side and glanced at the back of Anya’s head. Tris was at her side, looking small and yet fierce. Octavia wondered why Anya had brought such a young child to a battle like this, knowing what these men were capable of, but she didn’t stop to question it now. 

Anya lifted her hand smoothly, like a bird taking flight, and gestured quickly. As one, the group of warriors surged forward. Their feet were virtually silent on the forest floor. They broke through the tree line, slid down the incline, and then they were inside the Satyr Tribe’s camp. A scout spotted them, opened his mouth to cry out, and Lincoln’s dagger was already embedded in his jaw. Clarke and Bellamy shouldered their rifles, creeping against Octavia’s back. 

Then, as suddenly as a startled animal racing from the underbrush, a grizzled man leaped at Bellamy with a war cry exploding from his mouth. Bellamy rammed his gun into the man’s chest, more out of habit than anything else, and pulled the trigger. 

The gunshot shattered the silence and all hell broke loose. 

With a scream of rage, Octavia burst free of the tightly-knit group. She heard Bellamy shout her name, but didn’t turn back to him. He had protected her already and it was her time to take vengeance for him. She would cut the tongue and eyes out of whoever dared touch him. Last night, she sat up with Jasper on watch and visualized their hideous faces until she was sure she would recognize them even through a fog of acid. 

Lincoln followed at her heels, but she was grateful to have him watching her back. She knew Clarke was doing the same for Bellamy. 

Gunfire split the air in sporadic bursts, conserving bullets as the Grounders cut down Satyrs left and right. Octavia glimpsed Tris and Anya through the mayhem. Anya was as lithe and graceful as a cat. She pinned a man twice her size, her blade going through his shoulder and into the earth. She gripped his hair and ripped his head back, allowing Tris to slit his throat. The spray of blood on the little girl’s face looked horrific, but also as though it had washed something away.

“Octavia,” Lincoln shouted in warning.

Octavia tore her gaze away from them in time to slice off the hand reaching for her. Hot blood sprayed across her shoulder and arm. 

Wailing, the man clutched his wrist and then looked up at Octavia with a leer. “Bitch,” he rasped. “Now—”

Lincoln cut his head from his shoulders before his could finish whatever lewd thing he had planned on saying. 

Octavia fell in beside Lincoln and forced her eyes forward. This was no time to be distracted. Even though the Satyrs were greatly outnumbered, their panic and fear gave them an edge. They might still hurt or kill someone, drag them screaming into the forest, before this battle was over. Octavia gripped the borrowed blade tighter. She scanned the faces of the men she fought, searching for that one with a crown of horns on his head. 

Finally, she saw him and her lips curled back over her teeth in disgust.

He had a Grounder woman clutched to his chest. She was naked, something caked and splattered on her thighs. Tears rolled unchecked down her face, but her eyes were out of focus. She didn’t see anything going on around her, even her saviors. 

With a scream of rage, Octavia launched herself at Apollyon. She didn’t bother with her blade, unable to risk hurting the woman, and Apollyon cast his shield aside into the dirt. He thought of that woman as garbage and it boiled Octavia’s blood. Lincoln caught the female Grounder, cradling her gently as he lowered her to the earth. She whimpered, clutching at his forearms, as he did so. Octavia wrestled Apollyon to the ground and jammed her knife into his jaw. 

“I recognize you,” Apollyon said in a way that was almost diplomatic, “The girl who was with the fine young man. He was good. I wonder if he was better than you would have been.”

Snarling, Octavia raised her knife.

Anya caught the blade between her fingers and jerked it away.

Octavia whirled to face her.

Anya had removed her armored coat and Lincoln held it around the woman’s naked shoulders. Tris stood beside him, her face smeared with blood that had been half-heartedly wiped away. Bellamy and Clarke ran towards them. All around the camp, it was silent. Apollyon was the last Satyr alive. For a moment, Octavia thought Anya would let him live.

“Not your kill,” Anya said to Octavia.

Confusion fell across Octavia’s face.

Anya turned to face Bellamy and offered him the blade. “Yours,” she said. 

Bellamy froze when he saw Apollyon, clutching his rifle between them like a shield. 

Apollyon grinned. “Ah, there he is. Back for more?”

“Shut up!” Octavia snarled. Just because Anya had taken her knife didn’t mean she couldn’t use her fists.

“Tris,” Anya said shortly.

Tris stepped around Lincoln, took Octavia’s flailing hand, and tugged gently. Something in the girl’s face made Octavia rise to her feet and step away from the man who had torn open her shirt and touched her against her will. Octavia trembled, standing to the side with Tris.

“Is this the one who raped you?” Anya asked without preamble when Bellamy didn’t move.

Bellamy looked all at once outraged and ashamed. His cheeks flushed with color even as his lips went pale, his fingers were steady on his rifle even as he reached with his trembling hand to touch the wound on his face, and his eyes narrowed even as wetness shimmered in them.

Anya stared at him patiently, the blade held out. 

Then, slowly, Bellamy shook his head in denial.

Anya didn’t back down. She asked firmly, “If this had happened to a woman, would you call it rape?”

Bellamy’s eyes darted to Clarke, to Octavia, to Tris, and then back to Anya. His jaw worked and his throat flashed as he swallowed. He didn’t try to deny that. If Apollyon had forced himself into Octavia’s mouth or cut Clarke’s lips, Bellamy would have killed him ten times over. 

“What you would do for them, do for yourself,” Anya said.

Bellamy finally took the blade from her outstretched hand. 

Apollyon opened his mouth as though to say something degrading, but Bellamy didn’t give him the chance. He plunged the dagger swiftly into his chest, into his heart, and his hot blood squirted between Bellamy’s fingers. There was no sudden moment of blinding light or inhuman healing. Apollyon’s death didn’t do anything other than purge filth from the world. Bellamy stepped away just as pale and shaken, the bandage standing out on his cheek, but Octavia wanted to believe it had helped him.

The Grounders and Sky People walked together until they reached the point where they would have to go their separate ways to return to each of their homes. Bellamy walked with Clarke for a while. Exhaustion pulled at his chest, at his organs, at the wound in his mouth. She didn’t ask him anything, didn’t say anything comforting, or try to make small talk. She just was.

Then, she murmured, “You should talk to Anya.”

“Why?” Bellamy asked.

Clarke shrugged slowly. “I just think you should.”

Bellamy nodded, wet his lips, and made his way through the small army to reach her. Tris walked at her side, blood still drying on her face and hands. Occasionally, she rubbed at it. She looked up at Bellamy when he approached, inclined her head slightly, and remained at Anya’s side. Bellamy stepped beside her, his heavy boots crunching on the grass. Anya didn’t look at him until he spoke. He didn’t know what he intended to say, to ask her, or why, but the words that spilled out weren’t what he had thought.

“How did you know?” Bellamy asked.

Anya looked at him then. Her eyes were hard and deep, like a frozen river, and he could see the undercurrent coursing through her. “Tris,” she said. Though her voice was low, he didn’t think she was hiding anything she was about to say. “I took Tris as my Second after her mother was stolen, raped, and murdered by the Satyr Tribe. Apollyon’s signature, he’s too big, mutated—” She tipped her chin at the wound on Bellamy’s mouth. “Tris’s mother had it too.”

Bellamy swallowed and glanced at Tris, thinking of the way Anya had helped her slay the Satyr men. “Does taking revenge help?”

Anya shook her head, surprising him. “It does not,” she continued, “but there is something about it that makes carrying on easier. Do you feel it?”

Bellamy shifted his grip on his rifle and pondered her words. He didn’t know if he felt any better, but he no longer felt the shadow of his attacker following him. He didn’t feel the need to look over his shoulder, even if his mouth still burned with the memories of the terrible taste and the slashing blade. “Maybe,” he confessed.

Anya nodded in understanding. She unscrewed her canteen, held it out to Tris, waited for the little girl to drink before taking a sip herself, and then offered the canteen to Bellamy. He shook his head, still tasting Apollyon and Abaddon in his mouth. Anya looked at him like she knew what he was thinking, but didn’t say anything.

_“It's almost like the hard times circle 'round.  
A couple drops and they all start coming down.  
Yeah, I might feel defeated,  
And I might hang my head.  
I might be barely breathing, but I'm not dead. No!”  
—Jo Dee Messina, Bring On The Rain_

Dusk was smooth and silky, bringing creeping shadows and a cool breeze scented with flowers. It felt like a comfortable blanket, covering the events of the day. When Raven knocked as best she could on the threshold of Bellamy’s tent, he couldn’t deny that he was happy to see her. Her presence halted the downward spiral of emotion clawing up through his chest as swiftly as her uneasy smile reminded him of them. His fingers strayed to the wound on his mouth, stitched shut and covered with pale gauze.

“I have something for you,” Raven said.

He began, “I don’t—”

“Trust me,” she said. “You’ll like it.”

Bellamy hesitated.

Raven tipped her chin. “Grab some cleaner clothes and come with me.”

Since she wasn’t giving him much room for argument and he knew he couldn’t hide from the camp forever, Bellamy gathered a clean pair of jeans and a shirt from the miniscule pile at the foot of his makeshift bed. His blistered feet ached inside his boots as he followed Raven through camp. He could feel the eyes of the Hundred on his back, not necessarily cruelly or with disgust. They were probably just curios and concerned for him. He knew Clarke and Jasper had been keeping the attention off him and Octavia and he was grateful for that.

Raven walked evenly beside him, her ponytail swishing across her shoulders. She led him around behind the drop ship into the narrow space between the roughhewn wall and the metal ship. A crackling fire bloomed there, a little too close to the wooden wall for Bellamy’s liking, but his attention was drawn from it to the strange contraption Raven had crafted. It looked a little like plumbing, twisting up the side of the drop ship. Water poured from it behind a thick curtain. Clarke and Jasper were standing between the fire and the curtain. 

“What is this?” Bellamy asked curiously. 

“A hot shower,” Raven said with a grin. 

Bellamy glanced at her, back to the fire where a bucket was heating, and then to the curtain again.

“I’m finished,” came Octavia’s voice. 

Clarke picked up an expanse of fabric, passed it through the curtain, and then obediently handed Octavia her clothing. Octavia emerged in a small waft of steam. Her hair hung damp against her shoulders. Tiny bruises peeked over the low neck of her shirt, but she smiled at Bellamy when she saw him. 

Bellamy put aside his clothes and hugged her to his side, smoothing his hand over her tangled hair. She smelled wonderful, like flowers, instead of the stink of blood, battle, and debauchery. 

“It’s your turn,” Octavia said. “Jasper and Monty made some soap for us.”

“What’s all this?” Bellamy asked softly.

Clarke stepped forward, but Raven stayed her with a hand. “I just thought you both might want to get them off of you,” she explained. “Like this, you can get cleaned up. The water’s warm.”

Bellamy’s throat tightened. The memories of the Satyrs’ hands combing over his body, their unwashed salt-stained flesh in his burning mouth, Adam’s hands fumbling at his pants flared through him like a bolt of pain. He hoped his expression didn’t betray him as he said, “Thank you, Raven.”

“We’ll be right here,” Clarke promised him. “Standing guard.”

“Not that you need it,” Jasper added in a rush. “No one here would hurt you or Octavia. Or anyone else.”

Raven elbowed Jasper. 

They all knew Bellamy knew that, but they suspected worry burned in his throat. They weren’t exactly wrong, but Bellamy appreciated their attempt to soothe him. Again, he consoled himself that he was safe inside the walls of their camp and that the men who had harmed him and Octavia were dead.

“Thank you,” Bellamy murmured. 

“Step behind the curtain and hand me your clothes,” Clarke said.

“Let me know when you want me to turn the water on,” Raven explained. “I have to do a little tinkering. This is still in its beta phase.”

“I’m just here to help fill the reservoir,” Jasper assured Bellamy.

Octavia twisted some wet hair around her finger. “Do you want me to go, Bel?”

Bellamy wet his lips as he handed his clean folded clothes to Clarke. He hesitated, lingering against the thick curtain. “You can stay,” he said softly.

Octavia smiled, her throat flashing as she swallowed back tears. 

Bellamy stepped behind the curtain, stripped off his clothes, and passed them to Clarke. She put only her hand between the flaps of the curtain, respecting his privacy. Then, she handed him the bar of soap Jasper and Monty had cooked up. Raven started the water as Jasper poured several buckets into the pump. After a moment of sputtering and clanking and a little cursing from Raven, warm clean water poured down from the side of the drop ship like rain.

Clarke started an easy conversation about what they hoped to learn from the Grounders to give Bellamy as much privacy as could be afforded when he was showering outside with several people on the other side of a curtain. Raven and Jasper joined quickly, understanding her plan, and Octavia spoke a moment later. 

It was reassuring to hear their voices over the soft drone of the water. Bellamy listened to their chattering absently as he scrubbed the soap over his skin. Dirt and blood sloughed from his hands and arms, swirling down the makeshift drain to the soil below. The soap burned his aching feet, tingled along his scraped elbows, and made his skin feel cleaner than it ever had. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, fighting the memories of having it yanked. Warm water soaked into the gauze and throbbed against his slashed mouth.

He caught himself beginning to painfully scrub his hips where Adam had grabbed at him, the space on his lower back where Abbadon’s erection had pressed through his clothes, and the edge of his mouth where he swore the taste of salt and blood still lingered. He forced himself to stop, to wash gently, to stop clawing at invisible dirt. 

“We have three buckets of heated water left,” Raven called to him. “You probably have about five minutes.”

“Okay, thank you,” Bellamy answered. He tipped his face back into the water and exhaled slowly. 

The remaining time passed quickly. Clarke accepted the slippery soap and passed him an improvised towel. Then, she handed him his clothing one piece at a time. Bellamy redressed, smiling when he saw a pair of socks hanging from Clarke’s fingers. The material of his torn shirt was softer on his blistered skin than normal socks and he sighed pleasantly as he fit his feet back into his boots. Clean and refreshed, he emerged from behind the curtain.

“Feel a little better?” Raven asked. Her mouth twisted as she finished the question, as though she wished she hadn’t asked in that way.

Surprising even himself, Bellamy nodded. “Yes, thank you,” he told Raven.

She flashed him a winning smile, relieved that she hadn’t tread over some unknown barricade in his mind.

Bellamy really did feel a little better, certainly cleaner. He didn’t feel phantom hands raking his body, his hair, his skin anymore, but his mouth still burned with the taste of them as though it was carved into his wound. He swallowed, hoping the taste would disappear. It didn’t.

The gauze over his wound was wet and peeled uselessly away from his face. Clarke reached to remove it and then examined the stitches in the dim firelight. “You should let me put some salve on that,” she offered. 

Bellamy nodded in understanding. He embraced Octavia briefly, feeling her small warm body against his own. He followed Clarke into the medical bay of the drop ship, sat down, and let her pat some antibiotic concoction over his mouth before securing a fresh pad of gauze to his skin. 

“I should be able to remove these in about five days, right before the Ark joins us,” Clarke told him.

Bellamy nodded.

Clarke’s hands fluttered around his shoulders without touching. “Are you doing alright?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think so.”

_“When they start to judge you  
Show them your true colors…  
'Cause they don't even know you  
All they see is scars.  
They don't see the angel  
Living in your heart.”  
—Sixx:A.M., Skin_

By the time the Ark came down and joined the Hundred on the ground, they had secured a wonderful treaty with the Grounders. Anya’s people taught them how to hunt more effectively, how to cure meats and can vegetables, how to weave new clothing, how to build small secure huts, and generally how to live. For their parts, they had taught the Grounders more modern medicine, how to handle firearms, and shared any knowledge they could. Clarke had never felt so accomplished, so safe, so happy, so free. 

Beaming excitedly, she and Bellamy walked swiftly over the uneven ground to the place where the Ark had landed in a puff of smoke and a torrent of dirt. Bellamy cupped his hands, gripped Clarke’s boot, and hoisted her up onto the metal husk. Clarke offered her hand and pulled him up after her. Bellamy twisted the hatch and heaved it open, letting out a hiss of compressed recycled air. It smelled stale and metallic, nothing like the clean air flowing on Earth. 

The survivors of the Ark unfurled like the petals of a flower, one at a time they ventured into the new world. Clarke and Bellamy pulled them, blinking, into the light. 

When Abigail Griffin emerged, her temple bleeding where her head had knocked into something during the harsh landing, she immediately threw her arms around Clarke. After a moment of hesitation, Clarke returned her mother’s embrace. Looking aged by the loss of his son and the descent of the Ark, Chancellor Thelonious Jaha accepted Bellamy’s hand and then brushed his fingers against his shirt as though repulsed. Bellamy shuffled away from him slightly.

“Welcome to Earth,” Clarke told them. 

Abby looked around in awe, shading her eyes against the buttery rays of sunlight. 

The hard edges of Jaha’s face softened as he looked around. “It’s beautiful.”

Clarke nodded.

Bellamy jumped down from the platform and held his hands up for Clarke. She had twisted her ankle the week before and wasn’t keen to aggravate the old injury. Accepting his hands, she jumped down easily and watched as he did the same for her mother. Abby leaned close to him, examining the lingering wound that marked his healing mouth and cheek. Soon, it would be nothing more than a fine scar. Bellamy shied from her gaze.

“This way,” Clarke told Abby and Jaha. “We’ll show you to our camp. We can decide where to go from there.”

Though Bellamy and Clarke led the group to where the Ark had descended, the Hundred came in small parties to lead the survivors back to the drop ship. Clarke paused occasionally to pick herbs, explaining to her mother what they were used for eagerly. Bellamy scolded a few delinquents for being careless with their weapons. Jaha glanced at Abby with his eyebrows raised. How was it that the Hundred juvenile delinquents and the sneaky janitor who had shot him grew into these strong people?

When they reached the drop ship, Jaha’s mouth fell open further at the sight that awaited them. The Hundred and the Grounders had integrated almost seamlessly aside from the occasional scuffle brought about by the distinct lack of communication and culture. As they arrived, Lincoln was teaching a class of hand-to-hand combat with Octavia beside him. Anya’s young Second, Tris, was showing others how to rig up traps for catching game and prowlers.

Jaha and Abby both stopped dead at the tall gates, staring into the camp with shock.

“Hey, welcome back,” Jasper said easily to Bellamy and Clarke. He straightened a little further when he saw Jaha and Abby, but didn’t say anything about the way their mouths hung open.

“Come on in,” Clarke told them. “Mom, I want to show you our med bay and we have a fair amount of maps, too.”

Jaha and Abby followed Clarke and Bellamy into the small drop ship. It had since been furnished with thick furs, roughhewn chairs and tables, and even a long bench covered in blankets. It was comfortable and secure with a jar of pencils, herbs, and flowers spread across Clarke’s workstation. Bellamy slung his rifle over his shoulder and relaxed slightly as Clarke went about explaining everything they had accomplished. It warmed Bellamy’s heart to hear their exploits laid neatly out. 

“How did you make peace with the Grounders?” Jaha asked when Clarke finished.

“There was an,” Clarke glanced at Bellamy, “incident that forced us to band together. We’ve been getting along ever since. I’ll introduce you to Anya and Lincoln—”

“An incident?” Abby asked. Something about the way her eyes darted to Bellamy, to the wound on his face, to the way he stood close but not too close, made Clarke think she suspected what had happened or at least parts of it. 

“What incident?” Jaha pressed.

Clarke hesitated. What had happened to Bellamy wasn’t something she wanted to gloss over or hide because she had the feeling doing so would only encourage him to retreat more, but she didn’t think it was her place to reveal how he had come by the wound on his mouth. That, and he still hadn’t told anyone what exactly happened. Clarke had tried to ask Anya about it, knowing the Grounder knew more about the Satyr Tribe than she ever would, but Anya wouldn’t answer anything about Bellamy. Clarke wet her lips, bit the corner of her mouth, and glanced at Bellamy.

Behind his rich tan and freckles, he looked pale but his dark eyes were hard. He took a deep breath.

Clarke wasn’t sure what he was going to say, what he would reveal, so she stayed quiet and didn’t reach for his hand. 

Bellamy’s gaze shifted.

Clarke could see his mind shuffling through words and explanations, discarding some and drawing in others. 

Finally, he spoke and the statement was so simple that it took the air from Clarke’s lungs. “I was raped,” he said.

For a heartbeat, neither moved nor responded. Jaha looked stunned. Clarke held her breath, examining her mother’s narrow shoulders and bright eyes. Abby looked Bellamy over clinically, searching for the wounds hidden beneath his clothing. Then, Jaha’s face split at the edges and across his nose. His lips curled between puzzled and amused, like he had been told a joke he didn’t understand but wanted too. Clarke wanted to step in front of Bellamy, to hide him, to protect him from whatever came next, but he shouldn’t need to hide. 

Jaha snorted and his voice wavered as he struggled not to laugh. “What? A man can’t be raped,” he said.

Bellamy tensed at Clarke’s back.

“What really happened?” Jaha asked.

Bellamy turned away, clutching his rifle, and exited the drop ship. 

Clarke’s eyes narrowed into twin daggers. “How dare you,” she hissed at Jaha.

The Chancellor froze, once again caught between confusion and laughter. 

Without another word, Clarke followed after Bellamy. 

Lincoln caught her eyes the moment she appeared and tipped his chin towards the forest. Beside him, Octavia’s eyes glowed with worry. Clarke nodded gratefully to Lincoln and tried to reassure Octavia without stopping. She didn’t want Bellamy to get too far from camp and hurried to catch up to him. The woods were peaceful with twittering birds and dappled sunlight. Distantly, she could hear the river and hastened towards it. 

As she had expected, Bellamy knelt in the soft sand at the river’s edge. His rifle lay several feet from him, out of reach, and Clarke realized how tormented he was. He always looked so strong, hiding behind his armor and his patched jacket. She waited a moment, giving him a chance to beckon her forward or ask her to leave. She would do either if he asked her too, but Bellamy didn’t appear to realize she was there at all. 

Bellamy cupped his shaking hands in the cold water, lifted them to his mouth, drank, scrubbed, spit, and repeated the whole process. A few droplets of blood slipped from the aggravated injury on his mouth, mixing with the clear water.

Clarke approached him cautiously and knelt beside him in the damp sand.

Bellamy reeled away from her, stricken, and brought his hand to hide his mouth. “Clarke,” he rasped.

She regarded him, taking in his red swollen lips and the water soaked into the front of his shirt and jacket. “What are you doing?” she asked softly.

Bellamy flinched.

Sensing his fragility, she let the subject change. “You’re bleeding,” she said gently. “Put some pressure on it.”

With a wince, Bellamy folded his hand over the lingering scrape on his mouth and pressed down. 

“You know Jaha is wrong, right?” she asked. 

Bellamy didn’t answer.

“Remember what Anya said,” Clarke murmured.

Bellamy let his breath out in a ragged shudder.

Clarke washed her hands in the river, taking the time to clean the dirt from beneath her nails and scrub some sticky residue from her palm. She gave Bellamy all the time he needed, listening to his ragged breathing beside her for a long time. 

“I can still t-taste it,” Bellamy whispered.

Clarke looked over at him. His long-fingered hand still hung at his mouth like a crescent moon, not quite touching his lips. “You can talk to me,” she assured him, “about anything you need to.”

Bellamy’s eyes widened as though he hadn’t considered this, as though no one had offered, and Clarke wondered if anyone had. She knew Octavia had been trying to comfort her brother, but Bellamy was unwilling to reveal any weaknesses to his little sister. 

Clarke nodded. “I will never judge you,” she reassured. 

Bellamy’s expression softened and he looked down at the glittering expanse of river. 

Clarke stretched her legs out on the sand, resigned to just be close to him even if he couldn’t talk about what happened. The sunlight was warm on her skin and clothes. She shrugged out of her jacket, scrubbed it in the water, and laid it out beside her to dry. Bellamy watched her and then did the same. Without his coat, his shoulders looked smaller inside his t-shirt. 

“They… they didn’t…” he began haltingly. He pressed his lips together and looked away. “I don’t… even know how to explain what happened.” 

“That’s okay,” Clarke consoled him. 

Bellamy took a deep breath, folded his hands tightly together, and wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I asked them to take me instead. How can I—”

“Stop,” Clarke interrupted firmly. “I won’t let you blame yourself.”

Bellamy twisted his fingers, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Thanks,” he murmured and then dragged a hand over his face, being mindful of his mouth. “I just keep hearing their voices in my head. They said that if they’d wanted a hole to rut into, they would have… kept Octavia. I had to work to… get them off. I had to give them pleasure.”

“The one we caught, they made me do him first. He… he came so fast. It was easy and I thought… I thought I could handle it, but then the leader… that I killed… He was too big for my mouth. He—” Bellamy gestured helplessly to his cheek, eyes glittering wetly. “He cut me so he could fit.”

“After that, it… it just hurt so much. I couldn’t do them both,” he continued softly. “The leader kept thrusting into my mouth and it hurt. It hurt so much. The other one started to try to take off my clothes. When he came, the salt burned so badly. I just swallowed it, hoping the pain would stop.”

Bellamy’s throat flashed, pulse beating beneath his thin skin. “I swallowed it,” he whispered. “I can still taste it. No matter how much I drink or what I eat, I can still taste them.” Desperately, Bellamy cupped his hands in the water and tried to scrub his mouth again.

Clarke caught his cold wet hands. Without thinking, she tugged him closer to her and clasped his hands and hers against her chest. Her warm breasts surrounded their intertwined fingers like a sanctuary. “Bellamy,” she said gingerly. She wanted to tell him that it was all in his head, but she didn’t want to dismiss his feelings. Instead, she said softly, “I’m glad you told me.”

Bellamy met her eyes. They were so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his body, smell the scent of his skin, and feel his warm breath. His dark eyes were deep and vast, open and vulnerable, glimmering as he gazed at her. For a moment, she thought he might lean in to kiss her and she prepared herself to push him away. She didn’t want him to try to recover like that. She would support him, but she wouldn’t let him use her.

Then, he closed his eyes and dipped his head into her shoulder. He burrowed into her embrace, hands sandwiched between them. Shakily, he breathed out and his breath fluttered against her collarbone. Clarke freed one of her hands and circled it around him, holding him close. She rubbed his back slowly, gently, warming him with friction, hoping her touch could soothe the hurt so deep inside him. She tried not to think of the way his torn shirt had hung off his body. Bellamy slowly wrapped his arms around her and just held on.

_“Sometimes the only payoff for having any faith  
Is when it's tested again and again every day.  
I'm still comparing your past to my future.  
It might be your wound but they're my sutures.”  
—Fall Out Boy, Immortals_

Bellamy wriggled his toes. He had almost forgotten what it was like not to have blisters on his feet. He made a mental note to thank Clarke (and Harper) for the socks, to thank her for keeping his secret from Octavia, to thank her for… everything. He wasn’t sure he would have made it without her support—not to say that others didn’t try to help him and he was grateful for that too—but Clarke was the only one to which he could show his weaknesses. 

Now that the Ark had joined the Hundred’s tiny drop ship on Earth, their camp was developing closer to a real town than anything he had ever read or dreamed about. In fact, his tent became less tent-like and more like a cabin with actual sturdy walls and a roof that didn’t leak or blow open at the slightest provocation. Bellamy finally began to feel secure.

Ten days had passed since the run-in with the Satyr Tribe. Since Bellamy had managed to stop scrubbing at his face and mouth, his slashed cheek was almost completely healed. A fine reddish scar remained, but Clarke’s mother kept reassuring him that it would heal. Then, she would praise Clarke on the delicate stitches that allowed Bellamy’s skin to heal so nicely and it always seemed to dissolve from there. Clarke and Bellamy had held the Hundred together when they were meant to die, they had made peace with the Grounders, they had removed the threat of the Satyr Tribe, and they had very little need for adults any more. 

Bellamy slipped his feet into his boots and stood up from his bed. Sweeping aside the flap that had yet to be replaced by a real door, he found himself face to face with Octavia. She had washed up. Her dark unbraided hair hung limp and wet over her shoulders, her face looked pale and young without the dark soot she had taken to rubbing around her eyes, and she wore a woven shirt that was certainly Lincoln’s if the way it hung off her was any indication.

“Octavia,” Bellamy began.

“Can we talk?” she interrupted softly.

Bellamy nodded, stepped back into his tent-cabin, and held the flap open for her. She looked around the small space curiously and Bellamy realized she hadn’t been inside his tent since he had given himself to the Satyr Tribe to save her. In fact, the only one who had been in his space was Clarke. 

“What’s wrong?” Bellamy asked because he knew his sister well enough to know something was wrong.

Octavia twisted her hands together. “Can we sit down?”

Bellamy hastily made his bed and sat down, patting the space beside him.

Octavia sat down delicately beside him, reached for his hand, thought better of it, and returned her hands to her lap.

Bellamy reached to take her hand, squeezing her fingers. “What is it? You can tell me anything, you know that, right?”

Octavia nodded, but shining tears brimmed in her eyes. “Bellamy, I… I never thanked you,” she sobbed.

For a moment, Bellamy could only stare at her in confusion. “For what?”

Octavia’s free hand flit to his face, to his mouth, to hesitantly touch the scar on his cheek.

Bellamy forced himself not to flinch from her. 

“You saved me,” Octavia continued in a voice that cracked like ice when water poured over it. “You protected me. I never thanked you for that.”

Bellamy gripped her hand tightly between his own. “Octavia,” he said sternly, “You don’t have to.”

“I do,” she insisted and a tear slipped down her pale cheek to catch in the corner of her lips. “It could have gone so badly for you. You could have been hurt so horribly and I… I just ran.”

“Octavia.” He tugged her hand, forcing her to look into his eyes. 

As she gazed at him though, his mind emptied of all but the image of her frightened face. When he had seen those men pawing at her and raking her soft skin, when he had seen the fear and faith in her eyes, when he had felt Abbadon’s erection against his back, there had been no doubt in his mind. He knew what he had to do. He would do it all over again, even knowing what would happen to him, even knowing that he might not be saved a second time. He would do it again. 

Nevertheless, he had no idea what words would make her understand that. In fact, the longer he looked at her, the more he thought there was nothing to describe how he felt for his little sister. Anything he had intended to say to her melted away, replaced by the warm glow deep in his chest that came from knowing she was safe and unharmed. Bellamy twisted a lock of her damp hair around his fingers and felt the soft texture. She trembled, shivering, as she looked at him.

Bellamy scanned her face, mapping her every freckle and the faint circles beneath her eyes. Then, he leaned close and wordlessly kissed her forehead.

A ragged sob escaped her lips, catching between them like a bird that fluttered against Bellamy’s chest.

“I love you, Octavia.” There were no other words and even those didn’t fathom the depths of what he felt for her. 

Octavia sniffled, tears rolling unchecked down her cheeks. “I love you too, Bel,” she whispered.

He gently wiped her tears away with his thumbs.

Octavia pressed against him, her arms coiling tight and surprisingly strong around his narrow ribcage. He embraced her in return, tucking his cheek against her hair and feeling the heat of her body against his own. Her heart beat gently against his chest, mirroring his own. He stroked her hair, her back, her shaking shoulders until her cries abated.

…

As night fell, Octavia thought of Bellamy once again. Curled beside Lincoln with the fire crackling before them, she leaned into his side hard. Lincoln wrapped his arm around her, holding her close as her entire body trembled. She thought talking to Bellamy, thanking him, crying in his arms, would have made her feel better. The sensation remained—not quite guilt, not anger either. It was heavy and cool, like a stone of sorrow that weighed on her skin where she had been touched. She couldn’t wash it away, could imagine how Bellamy must feel, couldn’t think of anything. 

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she thought about finding Apollyon in the midst of the battle with the Satyr Tribe. She thought about plunging her dagger into his chest and face and crotch until he was nothing. Sometimes she wished she had. Other times, she only thought of Anya taking the weapon from her, offering it to Bellamy, watching Bellamy kill the man who had cut his mouth. 

After speaking to Bellamy, Octavia felt hollow, drained, and exhausted save for where Bellamy’s love burned hotter than any fire in her chest. It pulsed within her, as steady and comforting and strong as the beat of her living heart. 

“Octavia?” Lincoln asked in that way of his that never pressured her. 

Octavia turned her wet face into his shirt, hoping the firelight and darkness would hide that she was crying again. “I went to talk to Bellamy,” she confessed.

Lincoln held her close. He was a sturdy presence against her side, open to anything she might say and yet asking for nothing. 

“I thought… I thought it would make me feel better,” she whispered, “to thank him, you know…”

Lincoln didn’t answer. He looked across the fire where Bellamy and Clarke were chatting quietly over dinner. Bellamy’s smile was tired and thin, the edge of his mouth pulling near the wound. Clarke leaned close to study him, to touch his cheek gently. Jasper and Raven sat to one side of Clarke, looking equally tired from all the building they had been doing, but happy. Everyone looked content.

A little sob escaped Octavia, wracking through her small body. 

Lincoln studied Bellamy. By Grounder standards, Bellamy was slender and small. He had graceful long-fingers hands more suited to craft weapons than use them, more suited to heal than to harm, surprisingly gentle and yet callused. When Lincoln had first seen him, he hadn’t expected Octavia’s brother to be capable of anything. Then, he looked into Bellamy’s dark eyes and saw the iron will behind them. 

Octavia whispered through her tears, “I never asked him to do that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Lincoln murmured in return. 

Across the fire, Bellamy glanced at both of them. If he knew they were talking about him, he gave no indication. He looked at Octavia with concern and shifted as though to stand and check on her. Lincoln shook his head minutely. Bellamy stilled and Lincoln felt those eyes of steel rove over him. He must have passed some sort of test because Bellamy relaxed back into his seat, smiling again as Raven told a joke and butchered the punch line.

_“Believe that you can put me back together on the inside,  
Chase all the fear away…  
In the darkness you shine,  
Can you keep me safe tonight?  
When I’m down on my knees,  
You are what I believe.”  
—Skillet, What I Believe_

Clarke slogged back from the Fallen Ark’s new and improved medical bay. The night was deep and chilly all around her. The new camp that had been built by the adults and the Hundred was significantly larger so it took Clarke a few moments to leave the shadow of the Station to reach the small cabin where she lived with Raven. None of the Hundred were ready to live behind steel walls again, not after all the time they spent locked up. The cabin Bellamy shared with Octavia when she wasn’t with Lincoln was just beside Clarke’s. Faint golden light flickered beneath his door.

Clarke fought back the curtain of exhaustion pressing on her skin. She wanted to go into her cabin, flop down on her bed, and sleep for a thousand years, but Bellamy still worried her. The wound on his mouth had healed almost without scar yet she knew he still thought about what had happened to him. 

Lincoln had confessed that Octavia had nightmare about groping hands, about what might have happened if Bellamy hadn’t been with her, about what might have happened to Bellamy if she hadn’t returned in time. He asked Clarke what he could do to help her, but Clarke didn’t really know. She told him, ‘Support her. Talk to her.’ It was harder to follow her own advice with Bellamy. 

Clarke knocked on his door before she thought about what she was doing.

“Who is it?” Bellamy called.

“It’s Clarke.”

“Come on in.”

Clarke twisted the roughhewn knob and let herself in. The warm golden light came from a lantern Bellamy had salvage from a bunker with Miller and Jasper. He had also rescued a small stack of old books. One lay open in his lap now. He was sitting up in his bed, legs stretched beneath the furs with pillows propped behind his back. He glanced up at Clarke. The light caught on his face, illuminating the faint scar that remained. His dark curls were tousled all over his head, as though he had been sleeping but couldn’t anymore. His dark eyes glimmered and he licked his lips. 

“Something wrong, Clarke?” he asked.

Clarke came to sit beside him on his bed, their shoulders brushing softly, and it felt amazing to sink down after so long on her feet in the med bay. “Why are you awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. 

Clarke hesitated. She wanted to ask him if he had nightmares like Octavia did, but didn’t quite dare. 

“Can I tell you something?” he continued.

“Anything,” Clarke assured him. “Anytime you need to.”

“I dream about it sometimes,” he confessed, “about what happened, what could have happened, what might have happened if something had been different.”

Clarke folded her hand over his, squeezing his fingers comfortingly. 

Bellamy gripped her hand. His palm was rough, his fingers were callused, but his touch was gentle and hesitant. “Do you know what this book is?”

Clarke shook her head and leaned over to see the page. 

“Shakespeare,” Bellamy told her. “Titus Andronicus.” 

Clarke didn’t know where he was going with this so she stayed quiet and let him continue.

“In it, Titus’s daughter Lavinia is raped and mutilated,” he explained. His breath shuddered out and he turned the pages with one hand. “At the end, Titus kills her to assuage the shame of her rape.” (1)

Clarke’s breath caught in her lungs, rattling like a bird trapped inside a cage. “What?”

Bellamy closed the book with a sharp snap and pushed it away from himself. His eyes were like lanterns as he turned to look at her. “Do you think that I should—?”

“No,” Clarke said immediately. “No, Bellamy, no. That’s just… It’s wrong.”

“In the story, Lavinia can’t be fixed or saved so her father just—”

“You’re not broken, Bellamy,” Clarke said firmly. “You’ve been hurt, but you can get better. You’re worth healing, alright?”

Bellamy stared at her. His throat worked as he swallowed thickly. 

“Listen to me,” Clarke continued. “That is an archaic book. Anyone who would blame the person who was hurt, rather than the one that hurt them, is wrong. There’s no other way of looking at it. What happened to you and Octavia wasn’t your fault and you didn’t deserve it. The Satyr Tribe is dead now. They paid for what they did.” She lifted her hand to touch Bellamy’s face, but hesitated.

Bellamy laid his hand over hers, pressing it to his cheek and leaning into the touch. His eyes glimmered as he gazed at her.

“You can’t… you can’t keep blaming yourself, Bellamy,” Clarke whispered. “It wasn’t your fault. You just wanted to protect Octavia and you did. I know you can never really let go of what happened, but please… please, stop listening to things like this. Don’t listen to Jaha or anyone else who doesn’t understand what happened to you. Please.”

Bellamy breathed out shakily. His breath puffed warm against her wrist. “Clarke,” he murmured. “Can I… kiss you?”

Clarke didn’t pull away, but she pressed her lips into a thin line. “Bellamy,” she whispered. “Why would you ask that?”

“I want to know if what happened… changes anything. Does it make you look at me differently?”

“It doesn’t,” Clarke assured him. “But…” She hesitated, chewing her lower lip. “If you want to kiss me, I want to kiss you too, but… I don’t want it to be because of what happened. I want you to kiss me because you want it, because you want me, and because I want you, too.”

Bellamy nodded in understanding. 

Clarke stroked her thumb over his cheekbone, over his faint scar, gently. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Would you?”

Clarke nodded. 

“I would like that,” he murmured.

Clarke peeled off her jacket and boots, tucked them beside Bellamy’s bed, and settled beside him. The blankets were already warm from his body and Clarke sighed in delight as the stress of the day soaked away from her skin. He reached over to blow out the lamp and she heard the book hit the ground with a thump in the encompassing darkness. Bellamy lay still and flat beside her. She was almost asleep when his fingers brushed her hand. She intertwined her fingers with his, holding his hand tightly, and his shoulder pressed against hers.

_“Sometimes, it seems that the going is just too rough  
And things go wrong no matter what I do.  
Now and then, it seems that life is just too much,  
But you've got the love I need to see me through.”  
—Florence and the Machine, You’ve Got The Love_

On the Winter Solstice, Anya invited the Sky People to Ton DC for a traditional festival and celebration. Marcus Kane insisted on bringing moonshine, Abby packaged more advanced medicine, and Octavia assured them that the soap Monty and Jasper made would go over well. For her part, Clarke spent time braiding and combing her tangled hair. Bellamy patched a new hole in his jacket. Chancellor Jaha didn’t know what to do with himself. Even he could see that no one followed him anymore. With Lincoln guiding them, they made their way to Ton DC.

Anya and Tris met them at the gates. 

“Welcome,” Anya greeted. 

“Thank you for inviting us,” Clarke answered.

At her back, Clarke felt her mother’s incredulous eyes as Anya extended her hand and Clarke accepted. They shook like old friends. Once Anya stepped away to greet Octavia and Lincoln, Tris did the same. For such a little girl, her grip was surprisingly strong. 

Anya reached Bellamy and took in the sight of him. “Survivor,” she said to him. “Not victim.”

Bellamy shook her hand firmly, but Anya could see that her words had struck deep inside him. Without hesitation, Tris wrapped her arms around Bellamy’s torso and hugged him tightly. She looked small against his chest, but there was something similar in the set of their shoulders. 

“Did it make you feel better?” Bellamy asked her, thinking of the Satyrs’ blood hot on her face and his hands. 

“Sometimes,” she confessed. 

Anya turned to the adults flanked behind Bellamy, Clarke, Octavia, and Lincoln. “Welcome, Sky People,” she said in a strong ringing voice. “Come. Eat, drink, and enjoy.”

Kane found himself first and stepped forward with the offering of moonshine. 

Anya took it in her hands and studied the clear liquid. “Thank you,” she said genuinely and passed it to Tris.

“No, thank you for this most gracious—” Jaha began, but his voice withered under Anya’s gaze. She had no use for flowery speeches. He extended his hand to her instead. “Chancellor Thelonious Jaha,” he explained.

Anya scrutinized his outstretched hand for a moment and then offered her own. Asserting her strength, she squeezed Jaha’s hand and he nearly crumpled. Anya’s eyes laughed at him even as her mouth remained firm. “Commander Anya,” she supplied.

Jaha stepped away from her, subtly cradling his hand to his chest. 

“Please,” Anya called to the rest of them. “Come inside.”

…

It wasn’t until much later, after night had fallen and they all stood around a roaring bonfire, that Octavia found Bellamy and Clarke. The two of them had been swept away shortly after arriving, accepted at the leaders of the Sky People even with Jaha, Abby, and Kane here. Octavia was grateful for them.

“Hey,” she greeted. “There you are.”

“Octavia, where on earth have you been?” Bellamy asked.

“Lincoln was giving me a tour,” she explained.

“Tris gave us a tour, too,” Clarke put in before the siblings could argue.

“Their village is great, isn’t it?” Octavia said.

“And sturdier,” Bellamy put in. “Anya is going to send some of her builders back with us so we can learn how to build cabins like this.”

“Nice,” Octavia agreed.

Lincoln approached, carrying four cups of mulled wine. “Here,” he offered.

Bellamy eyed Octavia. “Should you really be drinking at your age?”

Octavia rolled her eyes and took a sip.

Clare smiled and shook her head at their antics.

Lincoln leaned over to speak with her. “Anya is ready to perform the ceremony,” he told her. “Who is your strongest warrior?”

Clarke’s eyes flit to Bellamy.

“As the leader, you and Bellamy should step to the front of the circle when Anya calls for you.”

Clarke nodded in understanding.

A moment later, a loud great horn sounded through the night. The chatter fell silent and Clarke saw Anya on the other side of the fire. She wore a bronze headpiece that gleamed in the firelight and lifted her hands to call attention. Tris stood at her side, holding something in her small hands. Everyone turned to look at them.

Anya said something in her native language and the Grounders roared in triumph. The syllables were strong and loud. Clarke saw Lincoln lean over to translate them to Octavia, but she couldn’t hear what he said. Then, Anya outstretched her hands and called for Clarke and Bellamy. 

Bellamy looked shocked, but Clarke gestured him after her. They stepped before Anya and she indicated that they kneel. Clarke did so without hesitation. After a moment, Bellamy did the same. He sought out her hand, found it, and squeezed.

Anya continued to shout in her native tongue. Tris lifted a thin white cloth from the platter in her hands, revealing two crowns of white flowers. She set one over Clarke’s golden hair and the other over Bellamy’s dark curls. Her hands lingered, smoothing over Bellamy’s head comfortingly. Then, she turned to Anya.

“The leader and the strongest warrior of the Sky People,” Anya said in English. “We are honored to ally with you.”

The Grounders answered with a fierce cry.

“And with them, one who has become almost as one of us,” Anya continued. 

Octavia stepped forward now. Tris held a small bowl in her hands and offered it to Anya. Briefly, with practiced hands, Anya tipped her fingers into the rich soot and smoothed some over Octavia’s eyes as war paint. Lincoln beamed at the three of them as the Grounders roared and the Sky People applauded with polite confusion. Raven, Monty, and Jasper wolf whistled.

“Rise,” Anya instructed them.

Clarke didn’t let Bellamy stand behind her with his head bowed and his shoulders slumped. She held him beside her, her fingers interlaced with his, and offered him a smile filled with pride despite everything that had happened. On his other side, Octavia stood with her war paint and her shoulders squared. As Tris and Anya looked at them, at him, Bellamy felt the shame slide from his back, his mouth, his eyes for the first time. It wouldn’t always be this easy, he thought, but there would be good days to go with the bad.

_“When daybreak seems so far away,  
Reach for my hand.  
When hope and peace begin to fray,  
Still I will stand.”  
—Ashes Remain, Right Here_

(1) For anyone curious about learning more about Lavinia and Titus Andronicus: http://www.shmoop.com/titus-andronicus-shakespeare/lavinia.html

Some inspiration drawn from this beautiful video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUlyv6bcnJg

Questions, comments, concerns?


End file.
